Chapter 2
Karamuren River,
Chapter 20-8th years of Toghon Temur
(Amur River, N. Manchuria, 1350-8)
How can I describe a place so strange and so foreign to all your experiences? My earliest memories are of the clear, blue sky spreading overhead like the vaulted roof of a great yurt, the wide, cold, blue and white Karamuren River, dotted with islands and sandbars in the spring and early summer, a vast lake after the monsoon rains of late summer and frozen over during the long cold, dry winters. I remember visiting the small fishing villages of the native tribes, the Nanai on the tributaries of the Karamuren and the strange Nivkh in the delta. I remember studying the fantastic carvings of masks and animals in the stone of the riverbank on the lower river. I remember the dark green forested mountains and the interspersed grasslands where we camped and moved about with our herds always in the same pattern: winter in the lee of the coastal mountains sheltered from the bitter northwest wind, spring moving slowly upriver along the Karamuren until we reached the Sungari in early summer, up the Sungari a short way then east across the Ussuri to the highlands for the monsoon season, then to the designated hunting ground for the annual fall hunt, and back to the coastal mountains for winter.
I learned to ride the steppe horse almost before I learned to walk. Many an hour was spent with the other children charging across the plain, the wind rushing around us as we were choked by dust or covered with mud according to the season. I also learned to use the bow and like a good Mongol became quite proficient with it. When I was five years old, a pestilence swept the camp and many died including my mother, my one sister and my middle brother, John. My older brother, Henry, and I also caught the disease but were spared. I have little memory of the time, but my brother told me we were cured by the shaman, Givevneu, whom Kaidu brought in after our own shaman proved to be ineffective.
Givevneu was from a tribe of people far to the north called the An’kalym. He fascinated me as a child, and I often followed him around, and he would kindly tell me stories. He told me I was very close to the sky god, Tengri, because my eyes reflected the sky. This was because I had dark blue eyes like my mother while my brother and father had gray-blue eyes. Givevneu had come to our camp apparently by accident. It seems he was resisting his “call” to be a shaman and had left his home and wandered along the forests near the coast of the great ocean. He stayed to himself and struggled with the spirits for some years until he finally gave in and then spent more years communing with the spirits. The spirits taught him during meditation and in dreams. Over time he learned how to heal the sick by finding and then overcoming the ke’let or evil spirit that caused the sickness. He told me the ke’let who had attacked our camp was one of the harder ones to defeat. He had used his “ship” (as he called his drum) to find the ke’let, and he forced the spirit to leave the encampment after a mighty struggle. This victory had been in the nick of time to save my brother and me, but too late to save the others. I never quite understood what he was talking about, and what I learned from the Hanjen treatises on disease was quite different, but it was clear to me then as it still is that Givevneu was a wonderful man who could indeed heal the sick. We were very fortunate that he was nearby in our time of need, and some of the local people sent him to us more out of fear that the pestilence would spread to them than desire to help us. He told me that he had agreed to stay with us because of the dream that had guided him south in the first place. In it he saw a walrus leave the rest of his herd and swim south until it reached the mouth of a great river. It then swam up the river until it found a herd of horses. It got out of the river and found that many were sick and dying, so it helped them and was invited to join. He said he finally understood the dream when he saw all our horses and knew that the spirits wanted him to stay. Unlike many shamans he never tried to frighten anyone or impress anyone with his powers. He was loved and respected by all and was always honored by Kaidu while he lived. As it turned out, he had a profound affect on our future.
My mother’s death greatly affected my father. Even though I was quite young, I remember how happy he had been before she died. He would always hum or whistle little tunes as he worked, and his cheerful mien was so infectious, people loved to hang around and talk and laugh with him while he worked. After Mother’s death when I fully recovered from my illness, I found him a changed man. He seldom smiled, he sat for hours staring into space, his job seemed to be a burden to him, he drank too much kumis, and he barely noticed my brother and me. My brother, Henry, was also greatly affected by Mother’s death. He had always been happy and carefree much like my father. He had a lot of friends and always had time for his younger brothers. It was he who taught me how to ride and use the bow. He became very quiet and serious spending all his time working at his forge. A year after Mother died, Kaidu insisted that my father take another wife. Her name was Yesui, and she was related to Kaidu, making it impossible for my father to refuse. She was a small wiry woman, much stronger than she looked. She also had been widowed by the pestilence, but she had never had any children. She was a remarkable woman. She took us all in hand and tried to turn us back into a family again. No stranger to hard work, she made sure we all ate well and were well clothed. She got my father back to the forge and was even able to make him laugh on occasion with her raunchy Mongol humor. She encouraged my older brother’s blacksmithing interest and got him and my father working together again. She got me out from under Givevneu’s feet and turned me over to her brother, Katan, to work on my hunting skills.
Yesui had been born and raised near Khanbalikh, but her family had always clung to the old Mongol ways, and she had readily adjusted back to the life of a nomad. Taking us over required more adjustment, but she was game up to a point. The long influence of the Hanjen and the surfeit of water in the Middle Kingdom had weaned away the Mongols from their almost manic fear of wasting water. In the old days, a Mongol only bathed or washed his clothes to the degree this could be accomplished by crossing a river or stream or being out in a rainstorm. According to my grandfather, George, our ancestors thought bathing was unhealthy but did wash clothes. It was only his father who got us on a regular cleanliness regime, and then only because his wife insisted. Yesui thought we overdid the cleanliness, but adjusted. She was also puzzled by our possession of and interest in books, as she could neither read nor write and couldn’t be bothered learning either skill. She did insist on bringing in her ongons or domestic gods (little idols made of felt) and rearranged our yurt so that my father’s bed was on the north side opposite the door, her bed was on the east side, and my brother and I slept on the west side. The little felt gods were over her and my father’s beds as well as between and above the “bed gods.” Also she put two protective figures on either side of the entrance to the yurt, to watch over the herd. We did have a few goats as well as about twenty horses. We had to patiently wait before eating while she smeared some fat on the idols’ mouths and poured a little broth out the front door to feed the spirits. But in spite of all the nonsense, she was cheerful, respectful, honest, kind, fun, and full of energy, and I still think of her very fondly.
I should explain that my mother was a strict Christian and, I was told, had tried to encourage our adherence to that particular sect, but my father and my grandfather, George, considered all religions to be an obstacle to one’s relationship to the one God. It seems this attitude dates back to an old tradition before the family came east. All good craftsmen strove for perfection in their work and were greatly offended that the religious “craftsmen” or priests betrayed, in general, no such striving. Disgust over the apparent hypocrisy led to a gradual disinterest in the religion, but they always believed in God and felt it was important to pray to him and dedicate their work to him. In any case, Yesui never presumed to tell us what to believe, but simply stated her beliefs as if they were facts, and my father instructed us to respect her and her beliefs but not accept them unless we personally agreed with them. My brother never did, but I might have if I had stayed with the Ordu.
Yesui’s brother, Katan, took my training very seriously. He was also short but rather broad shouldered and very strong, although no longer young. His children were grown, and being a born teacher, he welcomed the chance to get a new pupil. Once he was satisfied with my use of the bow, he introduced me to the sword and the knife, getting my brother to make me a small sword. He drilled me endlessly. Once he was satisfied with my progress, he taught me how to hunt. We would be gone for days at a time during all four seasons. His favorite hunting grounds were the river valleys and the low densely forested hills east of the Ussuri River. This was a beautiful area. It was almost tropical, with lianas climbing among the oak, hornbeam, maple, elm, willow, and lime trees. Shrubs like ginseng, honeysuckle, mock orange, peonies, and wild pepper covered the ground, making movement—and tracking—very difficult and dangerous. Colorful butterflies and beautiful birds often distracted me until Katan had me identify the various birds by their songs or just their flight. Not just the common buntings, flycatchers, cuckoos, and thrushes, but also the white eyes, minivets, drongos, plovers, and mergansers. Then there were the hunting birds, the eagles, hawks, falcons, osprey, owls, and especially the tiny screeching sparrow hawk. Here we hunted leopard, boar, bear, tiger, and on occasion marten, forest cat, and the small sika deer. While we were often successful, we would also have to settle for a rabbit or grouse on bad days. I still preferred the open plain where you could see what you were hunting and chase it down on horseback. Of course, such areas were limited along the Karamuren, and Katan taught me skills, which, fortunately, stayed with me for life.
When I was seven years old, I was allowed to participate in the annual fall hunt. In full battle regalia, the whole Ordu went out and surrounded a large tract of land and then began moving in on the great circle they had formed, driving all game before them. It was a matter of pride to let no animal, large or small, escape the ring. I and the other youngsters on their first hunt were with Kaidu advancing slowly on horseback, with more experienced hunters nearby to make sure we did not disgrace the Ordu. Over the next two days as the circle became smaller, we could see all sorts of different animals, deer, reindeer, bears, wild dogs, wolves, antelope, wolverines, boars, mink, sable, hedgehogs, even rabbits, pheasants, ptarmigan, grouse, and other small game. At night the surrounding fires kept the trap intact, and we could see the glowing eyes balefully staring at us from a safe distance and hear their roars, hisses, and snorts. No prey evaded the trap. Finally in the early afternoon of the third day, the circle was perceived by Kaidu to be small enough, and he signaled a halt. Then, as was the custom, he moved forward alone and entered the wooded hills before us armed only with a bow and a sword. We sat on our horses and quietly waited while the game could be heard crashing around in the wood. After a short time, Kaidu emerged from the wood riding calmly and pulling behind his horse a tiger and a boar. Over the rump of his horse lay a huge silver wolf. Each animal had only a single arrow in it. On reaching us, he instructed some of the men to retrieve the bear and three deer they would find in a small clearing just into the wood. When these were brought out, he gave the signal for the other leaders to move into the wood. After a short pause, Kaidu greased the middle finger of the bow hand of each of us first-time hunters according to the custom and then sent us in with the rest of the hunters while he took a good vantage point from which to watch the hunt and his women set to work on his game.
We youngsters tried to stay together as we entered the woods but were soon separated by the irregularity of the terrain, for it was broken by ravines and there were rocky outcrops interspersed with thickly wooded hillsides. Soon I found myself with only one companion as we moved deeper into the wood. The shouts of the hunters and the screams and grunts and thrashings of the hunted could be heard on all sides. I saw some small game, rabbits, mink, an otter, and a wild dog scurry to evade us, but in my childish arrogance I disdained them, for I wanted a noble prize for my first hunt. My companion rushed after a wild dog he thought was a wolf, and I went on alone urging my horse into the din. Finally, I saw a young stag hiding motionless behind a screen of birch. Taking careful aim I dropped him with one shot right to the heart. Swelling with pride I walked my horse over to my prize and jumped off and tied a rope around its neck so that my horse could drag it out. I remounted, secured the other end of the rope, and started slowly moving back to the starting point. Then out of all the noise around me I distinctly heard a nearby menacing growl. I fit an arrow to my bow as I carefully looked around peering into the bushes from where the sound had come. I started moving forward again keeping my bow ready, but my horse snorted and shied away from the path in which I was directing it, so I halted again and tried to see what was in the low brush ahead. Suddenly a figure hurled itself out of the brush toward me and only the instinct born of constant practice enabled me to fire off an arrow before it was on me, but the arrow hit its mark, and my frightened horse lashed out with its hooves to finish off what proved to be a young tiger. Badly shaken, I fit another arrow into the bow lest the limp figure should spring back to life. Just then Katan came out of the woods and stared in amazement at my prizes. Without a word, he jumped down and tied the tiger to the stag for me, then remounted and went back into the woods muttering something about the student trying to show up the teacher. I could tell he was pleased.
Uneventfully, although slowly because of the underbrush, I dragged my prizes back to the encampment and encountered some of the other returning hunters on the way. Some of the men were dragging much more formidable prey than I was, but I could see that they were impressed with my success. The others my own age had much less to show for their first hunt, and by the time I cleared the wood, I was feeling rather puffed up with pride. My brother rushed up to greet me only to look in awe at my catch. His stag was bigger, but he had only bagged a fox not a tiger and besides he was nine years older than me and had only gotten a wild dog and two rabbits on his first hunt. Word got around and Kaidu himself came over to see my kill. He praised me and gave me a cup of kumis. My very proud stepmother took over the game while I basked in the glow of all the praise as well as the glow of the kumis. As more of the men came in, more toasts were drunk to my first hunt, and soon my head was swimming. I don’t recall much about the feast that followed the hunt, except I do remember retching uncontrollably at one point. Eventually my brother found me and hauled me home dropping me off at the entrance to our yurt and throwing a skin over me because of my condition. The next day I spent trying to keep my head from exploding, while receiving no sympathy from any of my family. I suppose that ended any enthusiasm I might have had for kumis, and I have never had the stomach for the stuff since.
In the spring of the following year my stepmother managed to make my father aware that his second son was becoming quite the Mongol, except for my curious interest in reading the family books. He decided my future needed to be considered and called me in for a talk. He first asked if I had any interest in the family skill, sword making, and was not at all surprised to hear I had none. He then asked if I wanted to be a soldier like my stepuncle, Katan, and again I said no. “What then?” he asked.
I wish I could get back into my head at the time and understand my reply to him, but I have no recall of what I was thinking when I answered simply, “Learning things.” I did indeed enjoy reading the family books and liked the strange language in which one of them was written and the beautiful illuminations or pictures made out of the first letter on each page. I liked the feel of the pages, so unlike the Hanjen paper I would later get to know. It was a strange book I couldn’t really understand until I was much older. Father couldn’t really understand it either and had no idea how or which ancestor acquired it. He speculated that someone probably gave it to one of our ancestors in lieu of payment. It was called, De Politica and was written by an Aristotelis. We all used it to learn the written language—as we called it. I also liked the Mongol books in the Uighur script I had laboriously learned. But I really liked knowing how things were made and why they were made that way. In general I was quite a nuisance to anyone who would make the mistake of letting me ask them a question. After some thought, my father decided that it would be best if I returned to Khanbalikh to live with my grandfather, and perhaps with more options available, I could learn a skill that would make me of use to the Ordu. My stepmother was upset to lose me, but didn’t feel she had a right to interfere, so she got my things ready for the trip.
I had never been away from the camp before for more than a few days while on a hunt and was a little apprehensive about living with strangers (for I had no memory of my grandfather). Still the idea of returning to my birthplace and seeing many of the wonderful sights my brother had told me about excited me, and I looked forward to the adventure. In early summer I set off with some men Kaidu was sending to the capital after first promising my stepmother and Katan to keep up the skills he had patiently imparted.
At the time of my departure our camp was near where the Karamuren River is joined by the Sungari and turns northeast to empty finally into the Great Sea some fifteen hundred li away. At this point, the few “tribal Mongols” among the Ordu, especially Kaidu, would be seen staring westward along the river toward Mongolia. For it was along the Onon River which flows into the Karamuren, way upstream from this point, that the tribes which became the first Mongols arose. My own origins being far too distant to even contemplate, I could never get into the idea. In any case, Kaidu and his few fellows were so engaged when I left that morning. I remember the sight of them as we moved steadily southwestward up the muddy Sungari River, which drained the Manchurian plain into the Karamuren. It occurred to me looking at the water flow by that soon it would pass the Ordu and everything I had known so far, and I began to understand the behavior of the old Mongols. Little time was allowed for dreaming however, since we moved very steadily in order to reach the first yam by nightfall, and no one was going to be held up by a boy—I had to keep up or make it on my own. The others were especially anxious to make good time because the monsoon season was approaching and the rivers would become impassable and the ground marshy if we tarried.
The yam system established long ago by Chingis was still in fairly good condition in the north, but by now had fallen into great disrepair to the south and west of the capital. I was, of course, blissfully unaware of the fact that the great Khanate of the Mongols was slowly being torn apart. At this time, the Great Khan, Toghon Temur, held sway over only a fraction of the Khanate of Kubilai. But here in the rugged and sparsely populated north, there was no rebellion seething under the surface of the scattered nomad herders and farmers we encountered on our way. The yams were about ninety li apart, and so we moved just that distance each day. Nights were spent in the yurts of the yams. These were not very fancy and were often rather dirty and foul smelling, but after a day in the saddle and the fresh air, I, at least, was too tired to press the issue and simply ate what was put before me and promptly lay down on whatever sort of rug was provided and quickly fell asleep. In the morning we ate millet gruel, were given dried milk or meat to eat on our way, received fresh horses, and continued on to the next yam.
Our path followed the Sungari until it turned southeastward, where we crossed it, and moved due south for a while to avoid a desert, finally turned southwestward again following for a time a tributary of the Liao River, although we never saw the Liao itself. On we moved threading our way along the low mountains that separated Manchuria from the Han Plain. Finally, almost a month after our departure, we came to the Great Wall. In spite of my companions’ disdain for the ineffective barrier, I was awestruck and wanted to explore it carefully. They refused, but suggested that my grandfather could take me to it since part of the wall came very near Khanbalikh. For the next four days the Wall slipped tantalizingly into and out of our view. Then we saw it no more but began to see the sprawling suburbs of Khanbalikh and beyond them, the outer earthen walls of the city itself. While I gaped in wonder at the increasing concentration of people as we moved through the suburbs and the corresponding increase in traffic on the road, the people we encountered showed no particular interest in us. Soon we had to wind our way through merchant caravans of camels and asses laden with trade goods, venders’ carts, wagons drawn by horses or yaks, and many, many individual men and women carrying burdens on their backs. Through all our journey, we had skirted by the larger cities, and I had only seen towns and villages which, while the larger ones were like nothing I had ever seen along the Karamuren, had hardly prepared me for the teeming cacophony of noise, the riot of color, and the barrage of odors that assaulted my senses as we approached the steadily looming city walls. Finally we entered the gates and found ourselves on a broad, paved street stretching out before us. Shortly, we turned aside and soon stopped before a house from the back of which could be heard the unmistakable sound of a smithy. My companions told me that this was my grandfather’s house and bidding me farewell, went on to complete their mission.